


Knots and Crosses

by willowbough



Category: Dominic (TV)
Genre: Alternate POVs, Gen, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbough/pseuds/willowbough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dominic and Beever's troubled new relationship reaches its nadir, leading to unforeseen consequences. </p><p> <br/>Missing scene from Episode 2. Prologue to the In Loco Parentis series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knots and Crosses

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm working on Chapter 3 of Meeting Halfway, and this missing scene shook itself loose. Perhaps for me, it was necessary to look at how bad things actually get between Dominic and Beever so I could gauge how much they're going to improve in the future.
> 
> Episode 2 marks the lowest point of their relationship, which was already strained in Episode 1. Beever nearly stabs Dominic when he mistakes him for an intruder, and things deteriorate from there, with each feeling like the wronged party, both keeping secrets from each other, and neither communicating to any constructive purpose. Watching the scene, I had the urge to bang their stubborn heads together, tell Dominic to stop sulking, tell Beever to stop throwing his weight around, and send both to opposite corners until they could talk to each other without shouting.
> 
> And yet, by Episode 3, Beever--at least--is in a much milder mood, which made me wonder what led to him apparently softening towards someone he hasn't been especially kind to or even patient with, up to that point. (Admittedly, that's one of my big issues with Beever in the early episodes: a little kindness towards his new ward would have cost him nothing and probably smoothed things between them, yet he elects not to show any and comes off as an authoritarian martinet instead.) A letter from someone whose opinion he values, like a married-with-children sister, seemed a likely possibility (Enter my OC, Caroline Beever Sedley, but that's a tale for another time.)
> 
> Anyway, I found it illuminating and oddly cathartic to tap into Dominic's mingled grief and rage, and then into Beever's mixture of anger, guilt, and finally, understanding. He's not a bad man, just a somewhat rigid one, and I would like to believe he's capable of growth. Similarly, Dominic has a fair amount of growing up to do, and his impulsiveness is about to cost him dearly...

“…with contrition, not pride, trust and not suspicion, obedience and not rebellion, with quiet watchful sense and not impetuousness…”

_And you, sir, can go to the devil and take your sermon with you!_

Nick’s eyes stung and he rubbed them angrily. No matter what, he wasn’t giving his hated guardian the satisfaction of breaking him, not ever.

Cold-hearted, high-handed, domineering tyrant… who’d as soon kill him as look at him! Who demanded to know Nick’s business while keeping secrets of his own, secrets that Nick had every _right_ to know.

Well, it would be a cold day in hell before he told Beever _anything_! How could his father have left him in the charge of such a man?

The pain caught him like a fist below the ribs, sharp enough to take his breath away, and he squeezed his eyes shut until the worst of it had passed. He’d thought he was growing accustomed to it… stupid of him. How did one _ever_ grow accustomed to complete devastation?

Nick swallowed, forcing back the waves of misery that threatened to engulf and drown him. He _couldn’t_ give way to them, not while his parents remained unavenged! Not when he’d sworn an oath to find their murderers and bring them to justice…

His hand stole into his pocket, closed tightly about the hunter. Even if no one was telling him anything, he’d discovered _something_ of use today. A place where he could start looking for answers.

Castle Stainton, East Yorkshire. Some miles south of the Academy, across the moors. A long walk to be sure, but he was young and fit.

And under lock and key, until tomorrow. He glowered at the door, through which he could hear the strains of some ghastly hymn that Beever favored. What did _he_ know of love, immortal or human? If he knew anything at all, how could he imagine that a loyal son would do _nothing_ after his beloved parents had been brutally killed?

He had to get out of here, out of this room—but how? 

Taking a deep breath, Nick weighed his options. Pity he knew nothing about picking locks, but that wouldn’t answer—too likely that he’d be caught trying to sneak out that way, even if he waited until full dark. Jenkins made his rounds every night.

That left the window. One floor up, and a drop of a good fifteen or twenty feet to the ground. Nick had a good head for heights, and he was tall besides, but he couldn’t risk a fall from such a distance. Not when so much was at stake.

He needed a rope. Or something that could be used as a rope. Something sturdy that would support his weight…

The blankets? No, that wouldn’t do—even tied end to end, they wouldn’t be long enough. And there weren’t enough of them, even if he used Sparrow’s as well as his own.

Sparrow. In light of Nick’s confinement, his roommate would doubtless be sleeping elsewhere tonight. Glancing towards the younger cadet’s empty hammock, Nick felt the gradual stirrings of an idea… 

***

_…You are taking charge of a Person, not a Parcel—a Person with needs, thoughts, and feelings of his own. You may be most accustomed to dealing with him as your Cadet, but as a Mother, I can tell you that right now he is, first and foremost, a Boy who has lost his Family in the cruelest possible way. He is bound to be grieving, angry, and confused. I hope that you will bear that in mind and be Patient. Even more, I hope you will be Kind…_

Excellent advice, Beever reflected dourly as he set down his sister’s letter. If only it had arrived three days ago. Or even yesterday, before he’d set out for the Eight Bells Inn.

He glared about the room, noting without pleasure the sword thrust in his cupboard and recalling the boy’s scream all too vividly. And his pallor and accusing eyes once he’d shakily climbed out to face Beever’s wrath.

Damn it all, he’d had the _right_ to be angry! _And_ the right to discipline an insubordinate cadet. His quarters—his privacy—had been invaded…

But to what end? Despite his lingering anger, Beever found himself reviewing the situation in a more analytical light.

Bulman usually had a _reason_ for what he did. He was neither excessively mischievous, nor a troublemaker by nature. Indeed, Beever had had cause in the past to appreciate the boy’s diligence and serious bent of mind. Until this tragedy had occurred, they had not been… ill-disposed towards one another.

Now, however… relations between them were, frankly, a shambles. And whatever reason Bulman had had to be where he was, he’d stubbornly kept to himself while attributing the most astonishing—even insulting—motives to his guardian. Did the boy truly believe that Beever wished him harm? Wished him _dead_?

His conscience twinged at the memory of his blade ramming through the wood, the scream that had followed… damn the boy, why couldn’t he have just _come out_? 

_I hope you will be Patient. Even more, I hope you will be Kind…_

Beever’s gaze returned to the letter. Much as he would have liked to, he could not dismiss his sister’s counsel out of hand. Caro was the mother of four children, and her eldest son was close to Bulman’s age, he now recalled, which made her judgment worth considering.

_…a Boy who has lost his Family in the cruelest possible way…_

A fact of which Beever was well aware; he hardly needed Caro to belabor the point. Except…

Again, he saw the boy’s face, white with shock after hearing of his mother’s murder. Then, later, sullen and miserable throughout the double funerals…

Not a large family, the Bulmans, but a fond one. And Beever had heard that mother and son had been particularly close. No denying that the boy had cause for grief and anger. That he’d lost everything known, familiar, and loved. That his life would never again be the same. 

_Be patient. Be kind._

Beever shifted irritably in his chair. He did not think he had been cruel—not deliberately so—but he had to admit that he had not expended much effort on kindness that day. Time had been of the essence, after all. Surely he could be excused for not taking every one of the boy’s feelings into account…

 _“Piffle!”_ He could almost hear his sister’s voice retorting. _“Unless the house is on fire, and the enemy beating down the gates, there is_ always _time to consider other people!”_

 _The enemy._ Who appeared to be playing a deeper game than Beever had initially thought. Frowning, he reflected upon the unsavory Bartholomew Finn. A villain if ever there was one, and almost certainly involved in the Bulmans’ murders. But why? What possible reason could he have had for killing two innocent people? Or for sending one of his bully boys to kill Beever merely for asking questions? 

The last thing he wanted was for young Bulman to get mixed up in this ugly, dangerous business. But if the boy already had some inkling… might it not be _more_ dangerous to try to keep him in ignorance? Especially since he appeared hell-bent on getting involved, despite his guardian’s strictures.

Beever exhaled. Confound it, he wasn’t an _ogre_! Nor was he insensible to the boy’s loss, whatever people might think. He might not know the best thing to say in such a situation, but how many did?

 _Begin as you mean to go on_. Advice that not only Caro, but their late mother might have given. And certainly he hadn’t meant to begin like _this_ , with himself and the boy unable to exchange even a civil word. How would they fare for the next five years if they didn’t come to some sort of… understanding? 

Perhaps matters between them would improve if Beever did share some of what he’d learned over the past few days. And maybe that, in turn, would encourage Bulman to confide in _him_ , or at least explain his presence in Beever’s cabin today. A reasonable compromise, surely…

And deep down, he had to admit that he didn’t want the boy—his friend’s only son—to hate him.

He thought, for a moment, of going upstairs. Of unlocking the door and having a few private words with his cadet… ward. But while his temper might have cooled, there was no guarantee that the boy’s had. A young person could hold a grudge for a very long time.

Best to let his original punishment run its course, give them both a chance to—regain their composure. Tomorrow, when heads were cooler, he would try to speak to the boy again. And perhaps, by then, he would have a clearer idea of what might be safe for Bulman to know…

***

**Twelve hours later…**

_“Rope of hammocks, sir.”_

Cadet Sparrow’s words rang in Beever’s ears as he stared, half-disbelievingly, at the construction in question.

But he could not deny that it was exactly what the youngest cadet had described. Two hammocks tied end-to-end—knotted with commendable skill and surety—to form a rope long enough for a safe descent from a first-floor window.

It wouldn’t have occurred to Beever to attempt such a thing, even when he was Bulman’s age. And he could almost admire the boy’s ingenuity… if the circumstances hadn’t been so damnably dangerous.

Grimly, he made his way to the open window: a tight fit for a grown man, but not for a slim boy of sixteen.

A boy who must have a good six or seven hours’ head start on him. _If_ he hadn’t fallen into bad company along the way. _Damn, damn, and damn._

Voices floated up to him from the ground below. Jenkins and Miss Dearlove… Bessie. No doubt the good woman was beside herself at the boy’s disappearance. And if any harm should come to him…

Stifling his own anxiety, Beever leaned out the window and called for Jenkins to saddle his horse. Miss Dearlove remained, staring up at him, her plain, good-natured face creased with worry.

“Will he be all right, sir? Will he be safe on them moors?”

“Safe, Miss Bessie? My cadets are trained to survive in every variety of climate,” Beever returned with a confidence honed by years as a successful fighting captain.

A confidence that dropped away like the mask it was the moment he stepped away from the window. However brave and resourceful young Bulman might be, he was also out of his depth—and unaware of the magnitude of the danger facing him. 

For which Beever could not help but blame himself. He’d taken the wrong tack—and the wrong tone—with the boy from the start. And now they were both reaping the consequences.

He only hoped that it wasn’t too late to right their course.


End file.
